


Rum 'n' Pepsi

by Muucifer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Bars, Fluff, M/M, Mafiastuck, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muucifer/pseuds/Muucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sit at the bar with their drinks in hand, eyes closed as the pianist’s fingers dance across the keys and produce the most alluring of music. They listen to tunes that don’t fit the darkness of the bar, light and wispy as the pianist himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rum 'n' Pepsi

**Author's Note:**

> A request from my tumblr because apparently I can still do those? ? ?? ?? wow  
> idk if i get a lot of people asking I **may** write a second part where they frick since this was originally going to be longer lmao  
>  which isnt going to happen if people keep assuming I will? ? ??
> 
> If ya'll wanna encourage that how about you [reblog the post](http://lucifer-writes.tumblr.com/post/110658699321/rum-n-pepsi).
> 
> As always, beta'd by the ever wonderful Miramise!

The dim atmosphere of the bar is drowned only by the soothing lull of the piano from the corner, its stage lights drawing any and all eyes to it. Not just any people frequent the bar, but those of wealth or taste; those feared by society for power and threat. It’s a dark place, but calm. No fights, no guns – just well dressed patrons with more scars than visible. The occasional oddball will show up, sometimes returning most times not, too intimidated by those who are there every night.

Many go just to listen to the music; no radio or televisions just the piano. They sit at the bar with their drinks in hand, eyes closed as the pianist’s fingers dance across the keys and produce the most alluring of music. They listen to tunes that don’t fit the darkness of the bar, light and wispy as the pianist himself. A pretty little thing, all round faced and big eyed. The son of a renowned mobster, the most feared one in the city. But not his child, no; his son is bright and cheerful, friendly and talkative. He’s the bar’s own little star, and no one dares mess with him. They keep him safe, and he plays for them.

Well, no one except one. An oddball, a guy who no one’s quite sure where he came from or how they found their niche. He appears every other night or so, dressed in the same suit and tie. He orders a drink – sometimes two – but he never sits at the bar. There’s a table near the piano stage that he claims as his own each night he’s there, watching the pianist over the rim of his glass through black shades. But he never just watches, oh no.

It started with harmless comments between songs; “I like your music,” “You’ve got nice hands, kid,” “Talented, aren’t ya?” That didn’t last long, and soon enough he was full on hitting on the other. John didn’t mind it much, most of the time flushing and ducking to toy with the cuffs of his tux while he laughed it off, because “C’mon dude, everyone says that!” Until the man started getting more forward, hitting on him, complimenting his legs or the curve of his jaw.

A few of the regulars ask John if he’s okay; if he wants them to take care of the guy for him. But he politely shakes his head and chirps that everyone is welcome to his music. They shrug and let him be, keeping an eye on the pair none-the-less.

Just like any other night, John comes in with his tux on, fiddling with the bowtie and the sheet music before settling in his place and beginning. The slow bob of heads begins with the music, some patrons tapping their hands on their legs and others raising their glass to him at the end of the first song. That one’s always the most important, everyone just gradually accepting the music afterwards.

It hasn’t even been two hours when Shades walks in. Same outfit as always, orders the same drink, and sits at the same table. John glances at him between songs, watching a pale blond eyebrow arch up over the top of the glasses. He blows a kiss, and John pouts at him in return, before burying himself in the music the next moment.

The end of the next song comes too soon, but John’s tired and needs a drink. So, he pushes himself off the bench, stretches until his shoulders and spine pop, and wanders over to the bar. The bartender greets him with a nod, fishes a glass out, and pours him the same thing John gets every night. Though not underage, John just doesn’t drink, and he accepts his soda with a smile and a “Thanks!” before scurrying back to the stage. Standing just off to the side of it, he sips the drink slowly, watching Shades until the man gets to his feet and makes his way to John. Towering over John’s bare five-foot-eight and slim shoulders, he’s almost intimidating, but he speaks with a funny accent and never actually says anything mean, so John doesn’t flinch when he steps in front of him.

In truth, the flirtations are actually flattering. John doesn’t actually know many people, let alone people who think he’s attractive. It’s a nice change of pace, even if they’re coming from a six-foot-two douchebag. Well, Shades isn’t exactly a douchebag, but John doesn’t know his name, so that’s a pretty decent enough reason for calling Shades that in his book. If you’re going to hit on someone every other night for a month, you should introduce yourself. At least that’s how John sees it.

Tonight though, Shades takes it a step farther, one John’s not sure he exactly comfortable with. With his back propped against the wall, he has no place to move away to. Shades slides right up into his space, leaning down to let his voice wash over John’s ear. It’s somewhat awkward, creepy at worst, but he tries to relax when he brings his eyes to find the other’s through the shades. The color is impossible to discern, yet they seem vibrant and odd, almost glowing. Pale blond hair frames his face with well trimmed sideburns and spikes, and a few stray small curls near the bottom. With a square jaw and defined features, John would by no means say Shades is unattractive.

Murmuring, he jumps a bit sooner than John thought he would, “So can I talk ya into letting me buy your drinks tonight?”

John rolls his eyes, scoffing lightheartedly, “Sure dude, if you really wanna pay for a drink I get for free.” He knows what he means, of course, and Shades shakes his head shortly, smile teasing the corners of his lips.

“There’s plenty of other things I coulda offered, I’m just bein’ a gentleman here. I ain’t used to the whole shtick yet, obviously.” There’s an air of ease in his voice, and John finds himself fully relaxing, no longer too worried about their positions. Besides, they’re in front of the entire bar, if John didn’t want it – if he said no or made an attempt to get away – Shades would probably have a bullet through his head faster than he could apologize.

Apparently, he is aware, as his hands never touch John and he never gets too close. The brunet hums in response, “I’ll say, you wear that same outfit every night. You’d think I wouldn’t notice but I do, and I must say it’s really not that flattering. I think you’d look better with a solid colored tie instead of one with- what are those, anyway? Butts? Butts with… noses?”

Shades jerks a little in surprise, John stifling a giggle behind his soda, “They’re my livelihood a’ight kiddo. Anyway, ya gonna gimme a moment of your time tonight?”

With an eyeroll, he points out, “I have given you a moment of my time. See, you’re wasting it right now. Besides dude, if you wanted me to accompany you anywhere I’ll have to decline, I am a good kid and never go with strangers.”

After thinking it over for a moment, the man nods slowly, “Name’s Bro. Least, that’s what people call me. Join me at the bar?”

John heaves his shoulders, cocking his head to the side as cute and innocently as he can, “Bro’s a stupid name. I’m John, and I don’t drink so I think I’ll stay right here, thanks.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“I know.” A grin from John, and “Bro” deflates in on himself. A moment later, he’s turning back to his table. John thinks he might just sit back down – his cue to begin playing again, which is good since his soda is almost gone – but then he snatches up a set of keys that were laying there and makes for the door.

Shit. There’s a sinking feeling of unease, and he actually feels pretty bad; the guy had been coming to see him for quite a while and obviously it had taken some nerve to finally get around to asking John for his company, and he had to be a dick about it. What if he never comes back? What if John never sees him again and he blew the whole thing? It’s not like John _isn’t_ interested, it was just weird, since he didn’t even know his name or anything – like hell was Bro is real name.

John’s across the bar floor in a minute, cup clinking as he hands it off to the waitress heading to clean up Bro’s regular table. Just as the other opens the door, cool air filtering in through it, the brunet snatches his sleeve, pulling him back with a frown, “C’mon dude. Get back in here; I was kidding.” Glancing at his feet where they shuffle across the damp floor, he continues, “I’ll even let you buy me a Pepsi, without alcohol, since I really don’t drink.”

For a minute they stand there in deaf silence, the only noise besides the ambiance of the bar is the scratch of John’s shoes on the rug at the door and their even breathing. Then, Bro’s shoulders drop from the defensive curl they’d been in, and he turns around to face John, “Yeah, alrigh’ I’ll take what I can get I suppose.”

With a beaming smile, John hauls the man back to the bar, setting him down on a stool before hopping up onto one himself. Automatically, the tender comes over, setting a glass of John’s usual in front of him as well as Bro’s – because apparently he’s ordered the same thing each night he showed up. Once more, the bartender gives John a knowing look, one that speaks volumes about the brunet’s safety.

Clinking his glass to Bro’s playfully, John nudges their shoulders together as well, “So, you’ve been coming here for like a month now and I don’t know anything about you. Talk! I want details dude.”

It obviously makes Bro uncomfortable, even forces a small flush of red up the back of his neck, to which John wiggles happily about. Eventually he speaks up, “D’nno what ya want me to say ‘bout myself.” Well, logically, anything but that. Just as John twists his lips into a frown, Bro goes on, “I work with robotics and film makin’, gotta a shitty ass apartment even though I’m rakin’ in the dough, and ya caught my eye the first time I decided to barhop here.”

While he talks, John swirls a long, delicate finger around the rim of his glass, humming quietly once it appears that Bro is done, “You didn’t tell me how old you are so I’m going to assume you’re older than dirt and that since you didn’t tell me what films you make that not only do they suck, that they’re porn. You seem like the kinda guy who would make shitty pornos.”

Bro scoffs at him, but doesn’t comment. “Alrigh’ ya li’l shit then tell me ‘bout yourself. Since I hate to say it, but I don’t know shit ‘sides that you’re cute and an asshole.”

John barks out a laugh, “You aren’t wrong I guess! I’m twenty–three. My dad really loves this bar and the owner hired me to play here every night. I get paid pretty good money for it so I don’t work anywhere else. I did go to college for Biology though, just never did anything with it. Next question, why me?”

It goes quiet again, with the bartender keeping an eye on the both of them from the far corner, not eavesdropping per se, but totally eavesdropping of course because John really has no privacy. Mostly he appreciates how protective the patrons of the bar are, but it’s somewhat of a nuisance now. That is, until Bro reveals that he’s a serial killer and has a penchant for short brunets with buckteeth and thick rimmed hipster glasses.

The answer he gets instead is far less dramatic, “You’ve got nice eyes, and yer music’s pretty good. I usually ain’t one for classical but damn, you really know how to make them ivories sing don’t ya?” The compliment has John’s face heating up, flushing red from the back of his neck to the bridge of his nose, and even the dark lights of the bar won’t hide that. He’s been told the piano is his calling before, and that his eyes are gorgeous, but for some reason he can’t quite nail down it feels like so much more from Bro. The notion itself is almost laughable, since not even thirty seconds prior John was wondering if he was going to end up strung by his feet with his innards no longer as innards.

Dragged out of his musings by another question aimed at himself, John’s eyes fall to Bro’s hands – clad in leather gloves, the only thing out of place in his get-up – when he tilts the amber-filled glass at him, “What were ya originally plannin’ on doin’ with that Biology degree?”

Honestly, that was years ago. John’s positive his eighteen-year-old, bright-eyed, fresh out of high school self had an end goal with the college shtick, but it was lost well before he graduated. The only part of it John could recall now was the sense of emptiness he felt with the more classes he took, and the way they left him wanting more. Eventually John found himself just going through the motions without ever doing anything at all. It’s sad, now that he thinks on it, because he was good at the stuff, but it iasn’t where his heart lies. So instead, he shrugs, “No idea, I liked genetics though.”

Bro nods at that, accepting the answer easily even though John hadn’t actually answered it. The brunet mulls over his next question, needing it to be a good one, then he glances up at Bro and just stares at him for a moment. There’s a fine crease above his eyebrows, the pinch of them set firm with age, and the lightest traces of a wrinkle at the outside corners of his eyes, just at the edge of what John can see of them. Clearly, Bro is by no means young. So he asks, “How old are you?”

There’s a flash of something, though that may just be the way Bro turns to look at him fully, but it makes John snort none-the-less. He takes a drink of his soda, looking for all the world as innocent as can be. It’s always walking a fine line when asking people about their age, but after a moment of glaring at John through his shades, Bro drops his shoulders from the way they hunched up and draws out a long, exasperated sigh, “Forty.”

Oh. John chews on that for a minute. The guy is damn near twice his age, though not quite. Old enough to be his dad at least, if his dad was young when he had him. Counting back in his head, John tries to place how old Bro was when he was born, then decides not to dwell on it. The way John decides to think of it is this, he’s legal, he’s not even _just_ legal, and Bro’s attractive and doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that John is so much younger than him. In the end, it’s probably worth it, so John doesn’t get up and leave right away, watching Bro with his head tilted, “Your turn.”

After he mentions the questions again, Bro seems to remember something, tugging his suit sleeve up enough to check the watch adorning his wrist about his gloves that John didn’t notice before. It’s getting pretty late, though, and John really should go back to work. Not that the patrons mind much – or at least they wouldn’t say anything to John – but he was getting paid to work, to play the piano, not to chat with the guy who steals the front row table every other night.

A moment later, Bro looks back at John, his eyes moving behind the dark lenses of his shades. John can feel them drilling into his own baby blues; it would be unnerving if it were anyone else, probably. Maybe John shouldn’t be so relaxed around the guy. But hey, he’s in a bar with several mobsters who have all grown very fond of his company; he’s probably safer than the Queen of England. That line of thought has John imagining himself in a very fluffy dress, fan waving against his face, and he chokes down a snicker.

“Can we do this again sometime? Gotta head home and do some shit, an’ you should get back to work before I end up with a cap in my ass from one of these guys. I’m thinkin’ they don’t like me stealing away their prime piece of enjoyment for the evenin’.” Bro says it all so easily that it takes John a moment to figure out he is literally using that as his question, and decides to hold Bro to that and start the next round himself, because tough luck.

Regardless, John nods, propping his chin on his hand against the bar and letting out the most drawn out of breaths he could manage through his nose, like he was actually considering telling Bro no. “Yeah sure, I’ll see you a couple days from now like always? You’re like clockwork, always coming in and sitting in the exact same spot drinking the exact same thing wearing the same godawful suit.”

“What the fuck is wrong with my suit,” he fires back, affronted and surprised. John snorts into his pop, nearly spewing it across the counter.

Wiping his nose off on a napkin, he shakes his head goodnaturedly, voice just a bit teasing, “Dude your suit sucks. You look like a slob, and that says a lot considering I’ve seen some terrible suits. It’s kind of a miracle that they keep letting you come back.” The end has a swishy hand wave to the patrons, all of whom are eying Bro, fingers twitching like a trigger. Bro visibly stiffens for a second, but relaxes and jerks a gloved finger at John.

“Not everyone gives a fuck ‘bout what kind of suit they’re in.”

“Oh, I know. As if I could ever see you in something designer. Although, Armani would look really nice on you. Very tacky and cliché, it would go well with your glasses.”

“Jesus fuck John, you’re a rude one, I was lead astray by that cute face o’ yours.”

“It comes pretty natural actually. I am aware I’m cute, I’m like the poster child for kids with buckteeth and hipster glasses. Are you swooning Bro? You should be.”

The conversation lulls off as Bro rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his drink. As his glass clinks back against the bar, John rolls his head to the side, watching him while he gets up, shuffles around a bit and produces his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, and slaps a bill down. He waits until the bartender makes his way over, checks the authenticity, and gives Bro a stiff nod, then Bro turns back to John, looking for all the world like someone nervous at the end of the first day. It’s a bit refreshing, given his usual demeanor, and John cracks a grin at him as he hops to his own feet.

They don’t kiss, like he kind of expected after such a thrilling, romantic endeavor, but Bro brings his hand up and buries it into John’s already messy dark locks, making some sort of sound that could almost pass for a laugh if it wasn’t so stifled when the other squawks in offense and slaps it away. Black strands of hair stick up every which way, a few falling limp to hang against his forehead, nearly covering the blue eyes squinting up at Bro.

John brushes his hands through it quickly, smoothing it down a little before letting his arms drop to his sides with a pout, “Bro that wasn’t cool, I’m not twelve.” He was _totally_ not twelve. He was tall, and manly, and could grow stubble if he wanted. Maybe he should grow a beard.

Bro gives him a tiny smirk that could almost classify as a smile, then spins on his heel and makes to leave. The other is moving before really thinking about what he’s doing, grabbing Bro’s sleeve and tugging him back until Bro totters on one foot, “What the fu-“ his voice cuts off by the demanding push of John’s lips to his own, all soft and thin and beautiful. He only gets a moment to appreciate them, then John is facing away from him, walking back to the piano with a cheeky look and a mischievous glitter in his eyes.

Well then, he’ll just have to come back and cash in that nonverbal rain check of a kiss.


End file.
